


Four Men Cameron Never Fucked

by Queue



Category: Alphas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queue/pseuds/Queue





	Four Men Cameron Never Fucked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bette/gifts).



1.

In the end, it’s the smell of pine that pushes Cam over the edge.

_yeahohyeahfirsttimememorytentcoldohgodsogoodnooneelsethereyeahyeahjustlikethatmoremoremorenowfuckMom’scomingaimitaimitaimitawaycarefulcarefulAHGODYEAHHHH_

“Shit, man.” Cam can see the white of Sanjay’s wide eyes, focused on the archery target on the near wall of the cabin, on the dripping bullseye right there in the middle of everything. Score one for Cam. Score _fifty_ , even. Sanj’s hand’s still moving up and down on his cock—flushed and long and wet and Cam stops that thought before it goes any further—but it looks more like a reflex than anything Sanj means to be doing. “Never saw _anything_ like that before.”

“Shyeah. Practice much, jagoff?” Shit. Didn’t know Eddie’d come in. If anything can harsh Cam’s buzz, Eddie’s nasty voice would be it.

Cam tries to shrug it off. “First time.” 

“Jacking yourself? No _way_.”

“Dude.” No. Duh. _No_. Hello, they’re sixteen and horny, so that? would be a no. But Cam can’t think of a comeback (hah) fast enough, and Eddie’s mean laugh echoes through their cabin.

“Hah. Knew it. Bet you’re a virgin, too. ‘Like a virgin…’ Hey—or a _fag._ You a fag, Hicksie? Huh?”

Cam’s not sure when—or how—he gets off his bunk. If he didn’t have Eddie’s throat under his hand (his _spunky_ hand, yet) right this minute, he wouldn’t even be sure he _had_ left it. But clammy skin, against his but not his, says otherwise.

“No.” Cam feels his lip curl up on its own, feels unexpected strength snaking up his spine and pulsing through his fingers.  Eddie shrinks away from his hand, which feels weirdly satisfying. He leans in, just a bit, and shifts his fingers to the pressure points. Eddie squeaks like a girl. Hah. “But. So?”

“S-s-s-suh. Suh. S-so?”

“So what if I was?”

“Nothing. Nothing, man. Nothing, promise. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Swear to God.” Cam’s known Eddie since second grade, disliked him almost as long. As far as he knows, Eddie’s voice hasn’t gone that high since Adelaide McGinty kicked him in the nuts when he asked her to go behind the gym with him one Friday afternoon in seventh grade.

That? Was _almost_ as awesome as this.

 Cam looks over at Sanj’s bunk, seeing if he’s on his own here or what. Because he can deal with that, but it would suck, and he’d kind of rather not. It’s okay, though: Sanj’s eyes meet his through the flickering shadows, open and aware, and as Cam watches Sanj signs at him, flame-fast in the shadows—“yes” and “go for it” and “yes” and “yes” again.

Nice to know the ASL badge they got last year is good for something

Having someone in his corner—having Sanj there—makes the back of Cam’s neck go loose and funny. Pushing Eddie’s safer than figuring out why. So: “Good answer. Okay, then.” Cam relaxes his fingers against Eddie’s neck, one at a time, carefully. Even in the dim light from the fire outside, he can see the oval bruises he’s left. Good thing closing ceremonies are tomorrow: that stupid blue kerchief thing they make the older Eagles wear should cover it up.

Cam looks sideways at his own dress tunic, hung all properly on the camp hanger his mom gave him when his troop took off on this trip, with the kerchief threaded through the collar snaps just like it’s supposed to be. Proper, appropriate.

Fuck.

When did he stop wanting to wear what the other guys do?

*****

2.

A.A.

N.A.

FUBAR.

 _Fuck_.

Cameron is so out of here.

Or he would be, if his advisor hadn’t checked him in against his will on a TDO last Saturday. Like losing it in the middle of an exam never happened to anyone else. And he _apologized_ for bringing his flask (not like there’s an actual rule against that, at least that he knows about, and not like he’s not [almost] legal to drink, but whatever). _And_ he told them he’d pay for the desks and buy the proctor a new monitor and get her keyboard repaired.

It’s just that, when they wouldn’t listen to him, wanted to kick him out of the exam anyway, which would have meant his flunking the course, he maybe got a little … pissed off.

As a result of which completely normal reaction to stress, he’s now trapped in Group—Group, capital G, like that makes it something special—with a shit-ton of other losers, all sprawled on crappy plastic hospital chairs in their slippers and pajamas and ratty-assed untied terrycloth robes, while the zeeb up front tips his (cushy) chair back on two legs and blahblahblahs on and on about addiction and healing and sharing and caring and JESUS GOD ENOUGH ALREADY

_slump down in the chair kick out a foot loose slipper slides off next guy over gets up for water steps wrong on the slipper and down he goes CRASH into the zeeb chair tips backwards hands out to brace themselves someone’s elbow hits the fire alarm yells and freakouts and BREEP BREEP BREEP BREEP fuck yeah all the doors unlocked let’s hear it for safety motherfuckers_

Cameron’s almost out the heavy old iron fire door farthest from the group-therapy room, the weekend orderly’s jeans—and studded belt, WTF is up with that but okay whatever moving on God he needs a(nother) drink—under his arm from where he lifted them from the staff room on the way out, when a hand grabs his shoulder. He’d shake it—break it?—off, except that when he looks down he knows that hand: it belongs to that guy in the next chair over, who Cameron would have guessed is Indian Indian except that the guy has these really kind of intense eyes, ridiculously blue in his dark brown face, that Cameron totally did not notice his first day in this fucking place.

Totally not.

“Nice one, dude,” the Indian guy says. “Guess I caught your cue right, because that was fucking awesome. I don’t know how you made all that come out like it did, but however you did it, it was sweet.”

“Whatever, man.” Cameron’s afraid he’s blushing. He hates that shit. “I didn’t really, like, plan it. I just … things just happened, is all. Chain reaction.”

“Oh, sure. Because shit like that just goes down by accident when you’re around, huh?” The guy grins at him—fucking _grins_ , open-mouthed and all flirty, like they’ve got something going on between them and Cameron just hasn’t figured it out yet.

It bugs Cameron that that doesn’t bug him more.

 “Sometimes, yeah.” He covers up his confusion with a question. “Anyway, wait a minute. What do you mean, you caught my cue? What cue?”

“Your smell changed. Always does when you’re angry. Pretty obvious you didn’t want to be in there—who does, right? I figured you were planning something, so I watched for a way to help.”

“My _smell_ changed?” This is so not the time to be having this conversation, being as how they’re standing outside the back door of the crazy house wearing PJs in the daytime, but Cameron can’t help himself: he has to ask.

“It did. Definitely. Much more hot metal in it than usual.” The guy is rocking on his feet like a prizefighter, practically bouncing. Cameron wonders if he’s on something, E or ice or what that asshole South African guy in Cameron’s dorm calls tik. If he is, that might explain why he’s in here— _was_ in here, they’re _out_ , halle _lu_ jah—and why he’s so damn hyper.

It might also explain the smell thing. Cameron’s still not sure he’s hearing that right.

It probably would _not_ explain what happens next, however, which is that suddenly the guy’s (warm, strong) hands are curved around either side of Cameron’s face and the guy’s (long, hard) body is pushing insistently into Cameron’s, backing him up against the rough brick wall, and the guy’s (hot, wet) mouth is slanting across Cameron’s, tongue licking into Cameron’s mouth like it’s the guy’s all-time favorite thing to do and they have all the time in the world to do it.

Before Cameron can figure out whether to knee the guy in balls or drop the orderly’s jeans and get his hands on the guy’s cock instead, the guy’s backed away from him, grinning again and licking his fucking lips.

“See you later, Cam,” he says.

And then he’s running down the alley towards the street, hospital-issue slippers slapping wetly against the ground.

That sound’s Cameron’s first clue that it’s raining. From how wet his clothes are, it’s been raining since they broke out of the joint.

Guess he might have been a little distracted.

He focuses hard on the end of the alley for a minute: where is the son of a bitch—there, yeah, just leaving the alley and turning what looks like—yep, definitely going left, and he’s only got, like, a forty-foot lead at most. Cameron finds himself grinning, too, as he tucks the orderly’s jeans further under his arm and takes off after the guy: he can make up that forty feet in nothing flat, and whatever happens when they catch each other, guaranteed it’s going to be interesting.

When he gets to the end of the alley, he goes hard left and picks up the pace to a sprint, watching for the guy to appear ahead of him any minute. He makes it a mile and a half, barefoot on the city streets and fighting off the psych-ward drugs clogging up his system, before he has to stop to breathe.

The guy’s nowhere in sight.

The guy has been nowhere in sight the whole fucking time.

Cameron turns in a circle, staring at everyone in eyeshot—hell, he’d be looking around corners if he could figure out a way to do it. But he already knows what he’s going to see, the same thing he’s been surrounded by since he left the alley: a street full of unknown faces, none of them darker than dirty khaki.

By the end of the day, he’s boosted some decent Chucks from a careless street vendor, traded the orderly’s baggy jeans to a bum for a pair of cammies with a hole in the ass (thank God the PJs make decent boxers once he gets the legs cut off), and reconnoitered a square mile (plus or minus two percent) around the psych hospital. Survival, two points; finding the fucked-up grinning Indian guy who kisses like a wet dream, no points at all.

College, Cameron figures, scores somewhere in the negative tens. If nothing else, the last couple of weeks, from his algebra-final freakout through whatever the fuck today was, have shown him that that’s not where he belongs. Maybe never. For sure not right now.

At midnight, Cameron flips a coin. Camp Pendleton loses. He takes the last of the cash he lifted off that same vendor and buys a one-way bus ticket to Quantico.

*****

3.

“They want me to be an angel.”

Navarro spits Bud across the bar, earning a well-deserved dirty look from the man behind the stick. He wipes his mouth across the sleeve of his blues and clears his throat; the noise he makes is half cough and all amused. “Y’know, Charlie, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you just said something about being an angel.”

 _Charlie._ Grr argh. Between Cameron fucking Diaz and those goddamned movie remakes, Cam figures his nickname was a foregone conclusion before the recruiter even signed him up. He elbows Nav in the ribs anyway, and more Bud goes flying. Serves the fucker right for drinking that horsepiss. “Angel as in _Guardian Angel_ , you asshole.”

Nav slams the stein down on the bar and turns to look at him. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. Okay. Shit. That’s big. That’s…okay.” Nav shakes himself like a wet dog, picks the stein up and drains it. “Well, you are the highest-rated marksman in the history of the Corps, right?”

It’s not a question, so Cam doesn’t bother answering it. “Doesn’t mean I can do that job justice. Shit, Nav. Hitting a target’s one thing. Giving friendlies decent rooftop cover—guys I trained with, guys I know would have _my_ back—that’s the real fucking deal. Even your bolo brain should get that.”

Nav’s turn to throw an elbow. Cam wants to duck—his body knows how bony Nav is—but he stays put: fair’s fair. “Nothing wrong with my marksmanship, white boy.”

“Never said there was, dark green.” This time Cam does duck, timing it so he’s standing behind the bar stool his ass was just parked on when Nav’s fist whips out towards where his jawline would have been. Nav’s momentum carries him into the brig rat next to them and the guy turns a snarling face, but whatever he sees in Cam’s face shuts him down fast; he says something under his breath about “fuckin’ blues buddies” and goes back to drowning his random sorrows. Cam slips a hand under the point of Nav’s shoulder, trying to ignore how well his palm knows that curve, and shoves the other man upright. “Half green, Jesus, half green.”

“Damn straight, Charlie. _Charles._ ” Nav smirks at him, leaning on the bar stool’s cushion and running his fingers through the jarhead cut that barely contains his curls. Christ, that’s a dangerous smile—always, given what it does to him, but especially in this bar, full of grunts and gunnies and lance coolies and God knows who else but for sure nobody who needs to see—well. Anything important.

Anything that _matters._

Cam braces Nav as he wobbles, palm against what there is of Nav’s chest candy, and just looks at him, remembering.

Remembering what it felt like to lick up the side of another man’s cock—of _Nav’s_ cock—tasting salt and sweat and desperate secret need.

To open his throat and take Nav in, farther than he thought he could ever have managed, and to suck and inhale hard through his nose and suck again, watching Nav’s face tighten and tense against the painful pleasure of losing it too fast, too soon.

To sneak his left hand around behind Nav’s ass, running the tips of his fingers under the tight curve, brushing gently across the soft furled skin and then pressing, not rough but not giving up, in and in and _in_ until his finger’s up Nav’s ass all the way to the base and Nav is shaking and trembling and coming, shooting over and over down Cameron’s wide-open throat.

_Oorah._

*****

4.

Hicks hears their voices before he’s anywhere near the conference room, bouncing off that fucking expensive acoustic tile Gary made Rosen buy after the sonic-boom medico cracked up their freakshow fortress. Nina’s ten minutes behind him—divide and conquer, or at least don’t ask don’t tell—so including Captain Normal, released to them on bail after his mass public outing, there should be four friendlies in the vicinity.

Hicks counts five.

Two of them are women.

 _Shell casing (police your brass)—thumbnail (ow, fuck)—Rosen’s framed_ Diamond Dogs _gold record (why, God, why?)—bizarrely healthy aloe plant (good for burns, thanks, Rachel)—women’s-room mirror (they spend too much time in there anyway, can’t be healthy)—satisfying_ crashsplash _—bullseye oh HELL yeah._

Four voices gone, chit-chattering into the near distance. Nothing on his six. All he can hear now is the fifth person breathing. High-pitched, just a little noise in the sound—and wait, what’s that other noise: sniffing?

And then he’s in the doorway, watching her, seeing her nostrils flare. Her skin darkens under his gaze everywhere he can see and (he knows) some places he can’t ( _smooth skin [honey]—round ass [peaches]—long hair [tie me up wtf Hicks back it up shake it off])_ , with a little extra red across those high, high cheekbones Hicks knows he knows.

He _knows_ her. Except …

He drops his eyes to the prize—which isn’t there: smooth swell behind second-skin denim, nothing down either inseam except the thighs God gave her. Then—then there it is, familiar twitch and lengthening straining the seam—and then, almost in the same harsh breath, back to just a woman’s sweet, promising curve.

What?

“…what. The actual. Fuck.”

“Not this time, Cameron.” An eyebrow arches high in that unknown, familiar face, fading to mocha as she moves towards him. “Not yet, at any rate.”

“You’re—I know you. Knew you.”

“More than once.”

Hicks’ hands hurt, clenched hard as he thinks it through out loud. She watches him quizzically. “Sanjay. Felipe. PFC Navarro. Oh, man—and the guy I knocked over in Group, the one who got away from me afterwards— _Christ_ , he ran fast.” He eyes her legs. “ _You_ run fast. And—”

She holds up a hand. “That’s enough for the moment. Your compatriots will be back soon, and I need your help.”

Hicks can barely hear her through the din in his head: parts of his past crashing into each other, shifting and realigning like the scenery at Tyler’s school play—the same pieces of wood and painted canvas making a totally different picture. “How—how did you know it was—how did you find me?”

“Mmm.” One corner of her mouth turns up. She inhales deeply, smiles again, walks towards him. “I tracked you. You smell the same as you always have, since we were children. Pine and penitence, iron and thyme, smoke and sex.” One warm hand curves up over his face, then moves to circle the front of his throat. He could break her forearm with one move—but he won’t.

At least, not yet.

“You tracked me.” Oh. _Oh._ “You’re an alpha.”

“Hyperosmic pseudomorph.” The hand slides down his chest to rest over his heart. “One and a half abilities for the price of one.”

Hyperosmic—oh. “City living must be hell on your sinuses.”

“I get by.” She shrugs, hand dropping back to her side, moving away from him to lean against the conference-room table.

“What’s the half?” She looks down her own body and then back at him, both eyebrows raised this time. Hicks feels his face turn red. “Well, yeah, duh. But why half? That looks like”—feels like, his sense memory tells him, and the flush spreads down his chest—“a pretty complete ability to me.”

“I’m not a full morphogene. With a few significant exceptions”—she draws her hand down her own chest this time, over her pubic mound, slender fingers cupping her groin just long enough to make the point—“I can’t alter my bone structure. And I have a native melatonic governor.”

“I’m sorry?”

She laughs softly. “Built-in color control. I can’t lighten my skin or hair past this point.” And suddenly she’s the same shade as that Native American guy he went through basic with, half Diné and half Dutch and hotter than someone who burned even easier in the sun than Hicks’s white ass did had any right to be.

Hicks stares at her. How many more of the people in his life has she been? Just since Sanjay, or even before that? And shouldn’t he have known, afterwards if not at the time? Shouldn’t his ability have made him sharp enough to see the symmetries, the similarities?

Shit. Too many questions, and this is obviously not the time. Cut to the chase. “So you tracked me here. Why the hell bother?”

“Actually, your government tracked _me_.”

“ _My_ government?” Hicks feels like he’s missing something here—and not for the first time.

She grimaces at him, showing the same white teeth he knows he’s seen in so many different dark faces across the years. It looks more like a snarl than the smile he thinks he remembers. “Okay, then, _you_ tracked me—you and your team of supersnitches. You almost cornered me in Grand Central last week. I caught your scent then, and I tailed you—first home, then … elsewhere, then here.”

 _Elsewhere_. Christ. Hicks knows he should care more about the Grand Central thing—if she (he?) was there, that means he (she?) has more of a connection to Red Flag than anyone Hicks wants to know should—but: “You followed me to _Nina’s_?”

“In self-defense, Cameron. I need your help—yours and your team’s.”

“Right.” Hicks snorts, bizarrely glad to have something simple to be angry about. “And you though stalking me, _spying_ on me was the way to get it. Good move, Sanjay or Nav or whoever the hell you are.”

She puts up a fine-fingered hand and pinches the bridge of her nose. Under the current color of her skin, she looks paler than he’d have thought possible. “Please, Cameron. Don’t brush me back. For old time’s sake, you have to—”

But Rosen’s in the doorway now, mild inquiring shrink mask in place as usual with strangers. “Mr. Hicks. Nice to have you joining us today. I gather you’ve already met our guest?”

For the life of him, Hicks doesn’t know how to answer that. 

~FIN~


End file.
